Spring chicken

At least my body delivers on time, well, early actually. My second son, Jago, arrived on 10 March, three weeks ahead of his deadline, weighing in at almost eight pounds. I am, of course, madly in love with him, despite his nocturnal habits. The only benefit of his nightly 4 am howl-down is that during the day he sleeps, peaceful and milk-doped. (No, Gina Ford would so not approve.) This means that I’m free to write a bit - hence the muddled ramblings here - and potter around the house feeling like a joyously unemployed person, eating away my tiredness with large lumps of Green and Blacks and picking out wedges in Grazia that I can’t get into town to buy. Unfortunately as I only managed to deliver a baby, not my third novel, this state cannot last forever. It's hard to reconcile maternity leave with self employment. But still, who else gets to work with their baby cooing by their desk? Better a baby than a boss.